Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Let's not paint murals of horizons on our prison walls. Let's not decorate & get nice furniture. Let's not put others down 4 being negative.. Because they don't like the prison. Let's not visualize freedom & chant of love when the guy in the cell next to you is being raped & sodomized Bread & circuses, little uplifting quotes to convince you everything is just peachy. Besides the prison protects you from the scary free world

Gentle explosions of truth blast the silence. Fat flabby faces shiver & shake like sails of skin fluttering in the wind as you play with your sleeve

Light sweeps through the toasted branches of the afternoon, swirling with rusted leaves in the air on their way to the ground

Paranormal sidewalks crumble down the road. Cracks in the concrete erupt with an exuberance of grass bursting forth for the sun. A prison breakWarped wooden fences smile almost toothless, soothed by the bath of the warm sun over splintered crooked poles. Awkward rotting posts leaning

The relentless pound of shoes, the roar of motors, a thick slab of concrete, buried in utter darkness...yet these thin blades of grass escape

The bulb of my head teeters on its stalk & there is no other thought than to follow the thin blades of grass that went before me

Others have painted murals of horizons on the walls of their prison cells, painting fluffy saccharine words of inspiration. This bulb is fired

Bloody, shattered like an egg, this skull must break up thru the surface. Time can't be wasted decorating the walls of our cells. Let's break free

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

she walks alongtempted by a sprawl of fence posts, like crooked teeth rattling in the wind,and lamp posts, mail boxes, the cracks in the sidewalk and the movements of strangers.

her toes wigglebending with her weight, her shoulders, the bounce of her breasts and the heaviness beyond words that she carries in her hearther toes redden, Mercury bloodand she moves forward

her neck rises up verticallyfrom a spine constructedof vibrating scales and paper clipsshe sways in the savage elegance of a rhythm of words & beer canssmeared with goodbyesand close misses

a language animal, living in the mind, vibrating, resonating with those things unseenthe verbal equivalent, an autonomous thing? It's possiblethe objectified product of the imaginationexisting in a parallel world

her knees are oiled up with butterthey slide round in chrome socketsripe oranges whirlingwith the energyset in motion by the word

she turnsfrail threads of smokespill out into the air above her headthe skin on her face fallsin a solid pulsing sheet of whiteness

hot flecks of sunshine glistenas her spine rolls through a spray of quite popsuntil the scale reaches the inevitable conclusionof its crisp articulations

she turnsher eyebrows awakenand her eyebrows plunge forwardin a spill of gentle brrezesthrough a gray sandy mistand she is gone

constructed thru the imaginationcan we breath passion into these charactersdo the take on some thought form & exist on some mental plane